


his handiwork.

by prismatic_starstuff



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Masturbation, And proceeds to have far too much fun pushing them out, Fëanor has just finished making the Silmarils, He decides to push said Silmarils inside himself, He is enamoured with said Silmarils, Masturbation, Other, Using the Silmarils as Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prismatic_starstuff/pseuds/prismatic_starstuff
Summary: In this moment, Fëanor has never been more sure: his handiwork truly is beyond that of any other...
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Silmaril(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	his handiwork.

**Author's Note:**

> ná = yes
> 
> This idea came screaming into my head and wouldn't let me stop writing until it was written, so here it is. x'D

A deep moan echoes shamelessly throughout the forge, and Fëanor’s hips cant upwards, his face flushed hotly. Completely naked, the skin of his lithe chest sticky and glistening softly with sweat, he spreads his long legs wider as his hand desperately seeks the pleasure that only he can give himself.

Or rather, the pleasure that only his _handiwork_ can give himself.

Another groan slips past his parted lips as he pushes the shimmering, shining jewel deeper inside; and his hole, deliberately unprepared so that he may feel every moment, stretches to welcome his precious Silmaril. The jewel pulses with power, radiating a tempting warmth, exuding an inner power that has driven Fëanor mad with lust from the second the finished products first touched his hands...

Further and further past his tight ring the Silmaril slips, and Fëanor can feel its power _in_ him: it’s hot, and overwhelming, and it’s incredible... He hisses from pain and pleasure both, and his fingers retract once the stone is as deep as he can manage without damaging himself, his arm falling limp against the cold floor. His mouth wordlessly opens as such an extreme pleasure courses through him, burning and tingling... he feels so _full..._ so full of power, so full of the power that _he_ created...

Half-lidded eyes shift over to the other two Silmarils, glistening beautifully at his side.

His straining, dripping cock _weeps_ at the thoughts that grace his mind. 

He cannot restrain himself.

One strong, elegant hand grasps another of the jewels, and he brings it swiftly to trembling lips: he kisses it, once, twice, drags it down his lips and his neck and he savours the hot tingle where it goes. He brushes it against a sensitive nipple and cries out in surprise as much as pleasure, eyes blowing wide. His hips roll of their own accord as he massages one nipple and then the next with his gem of treelight, and he feels the other jewel so deep inside of him, the pressure delighting him so much that it takes the breath straight from his lungs.

His free hand snatches up the last of the Silmarils, and he eagerly touches it to his stretched and gaping hole, letting his moans spill free and loud now. The other jewel massages against his heavy balls, his leaking shaft, and tears form in his eyes from the pure bliss of it all.

Once again his hole is blessed by the sweet smooth slide of a Silmaril, another of the jewels slipping in, Fëanor’s back arching as he practically howls in ecstasy. His shaft is throbbing, precum running from its tip as a satisfaction he’s never felt before takes hold; in all his days he’s never known such a lust, such a deep craving for _more_...

He can’t wait anymore. As much as he loves the feeling of his handiwork, his greatest creation against his aching need... he’s desperate: he needs to feel as full of it as he possibly can.

His knees bend further, and he hikes his legs up, his ass shamelessly in the air with the beautiful ethereal light of the two Silmarils clearly shining in his stretched-out entrance. Flexible and strong from years of battle and discipline, he presses his thighs tight to his chest, leaving himself bare and prone and so very _ready._ Down he slides the rock, down his perineum and drawing shivers from his body as it sneaks closer and closer to where he needs it most...

Fëanor wraps his empty hand around his cock, though his firm and calloused touch is nothing compared to the warmth and smoothness of the jewels. Panting and gasping, his fingers roughly work the third Silmaril inside his body; the tears pour from his eyes from the pure and overwhelming _sensation_ of it all _,_ lips curved in a wild grin, a long pink tongue lashing out to wet pretty lips as as he fills himself. The third jewel presses into the second, causing the second to press into the first, causing the first to drive into his body so much deeper still...

Deep inside of him, his blessed work rubs relentlessly against that certain spot that makes him see stars, and he as good as _screams:_ eyes wide, tongue lolling out still as his hips buck wildly, gush upon gush of virile Elven seed squirting from his length and painting his trembling form.

But he does not stop.

He is _far_ from finished.

His inner walls clench and relax with the force of his orgasm, and he _whimpers_ as the movements shift his precious rocks against the places most sensitive in him. Keeping his legs hiked up, he experimentally tightens his hole, a satisfied teeth-baring grin crossing his handsome features as he feels that glorious movement inside of him once more. He continues to test and explore, tightening his muscles, pushing, rolling his hips and thrusting up against the heated forge air to find the sweetest sensations; and _all_ of it pleases him to no end, every movement, every shift, every pulse of his precious treelight inside of him drawing such satisfied groans.

It doesn’t take long at all for him to grow hard once more, and Fëanor grips tightly at the base of his shaft. His cock desperately wishes to spill, he can _feel_ the cum inside of him desperate to burst out, but he refuses; not now, not _yet..._

Onto his front he rolls, and he finds it’s _such_ a good position; propped up on trembling arms and shaky legs, his pert and round rear end pointed towards the door and utterly exposed for anyone to see if they happened to enter...

Endless streams of praise spill from his lips; breathless and desperate cries of “ná... n- _áá... náá_ _á_ _á--!”_ tumbling out of him as he finally allows another orgasm to wrack his body, spurting out of him to spill across the floor and pool in a sizeable puddle beneath him.

He draws deep, deep breaths, shaking hard and violently. As much as he wishes to go for longer, to peak on the glory of his creation again and again, to satisfy himself until he can physically be satisfied no more... he can feel his body ache for rest. His chest heaves, and long dark hair sticks to his body as his head bows, and he pants harshly to catch his breath and ease his racing heart.

It takes a few long moments, but once he deems himself ready, Fëanor shifts to sit up on his knees; wincing as his Silmarils give his sweet spot an almost cheeky rub as he does. The thought crosses his mind then that he will, regrettably, have to take his jewels out...

...but almost as soon as the thought occurs to him, the realisation of exactly how he will have to do that - considering just how deep inside of him they are - follows. _That_ brings a different kind of heat to his already flushed cheeks.

All of a sudden, he doesn’t feel quite so willing to risk just anyone walking in on him.

Sighing heavily at his own lack of foresight for getting him into this situation, Fëanor moves on shaky limbs to turn himself towards the doorway. He knows that no-one will come by the forge, not this late, not while everyone knows that he is busy working... well, ‘working’... but in this position, he would rather be able to see personally. 

Leaning back on his feet, he shifts into a squat, teeth worrying at his lower lip.

A deep breath passes by his lips as his eyes fall closed, and he braces his hands upon strong thighs before he _pushes._ He bears down hard, lips tightening with the force, knowing just how deep his precious Silmarils are and how much force it’d likely require to get them back out.

...He is absolutely _appalled_ by how good the process feels.

The gems of treelight are smooth and large, and though it is slow thanks to their considerable size, he feels them move. The three jewels slide so perfectly against his inner walls with every push, and Fëanor’s eyes widen, his face flushing further; this part shouldn’t feel so good, surely, but--

_“Oh--!”_

Eyes widen as the first Silmaril begins to stretch his only recently relaxed hole, and he gasps. Its warmth, its gentle pulsing, its _power_ as it opens him and forces him to gape once more... The thought humiliates him - and he is sure that he will never allow himself to think of this after the fact - but it seems to feel just as wonderful coming out as it had going in...

The first Silmaril clatters to the ground with another firm push and a grunt, and he growls softly to himself as he grabs at his once again hardened shaft, clenching his eyes tighter still as he continues to push out his gems and work at his needy cock.

Slowly, _slowly,_ the sizeable orbs slide down Fëanor’s channel until one presses again so teasingly against his hole; and every moment fills him with such tantalising delight, such blissful sounds leaving him as the second Silmaril slides out of him to join the first. His hips alternate between thrusting into his hand and pushing back, his stretched hole winking and flexing, his length twitching and throbbing...

The last Silmaril slides out, and Fëanor is so spent that he cannot even scream; his back arches and his head falls back as a wordless cry leaves him and his release splatters across the floor, and his tired body soon collapses boneless into his own mess.

The last few drips of his climax spill from him, warm against his thighs, as he rolls onto his back. The rapidly cooling pool of his essence at his back contrasts with the heat of the Silmaril that his foot accidentally brushes, and a lust-drunk chuckle bubbles up inside his chest, soon escalating into a breathless and slurred laugh of pure hazy-minded bliss.

He was wrong before, he realises; he will _definitely_ think of this moment again.

In this moment, Fëanor has never been more sure: his handiwork truly is beyond that of any other...


End file.
